


The Other Side of Living

by JodyNorman



Category: Houston Knights
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 02:19:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3592653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JodyNorman/pseuds/JodyNorman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Could it be true? LaFiamma's dead? Lundy thinks so, and so does Uncle Mikey. But what about the stranger called Michael?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Side of Living

It was the day everything ended. So Lundy thought of it, when he thought of it at all. He tried not to. But somewhere on the shelf where memories are ranked and filed, this day and its events sat next to the day Caroline died.

It started out normal, at least, as normal as it ever got in a police officer's life, in his life. He'd walked into the station, offered his partner a casual greeting, and sat down at his desk. LaFiamma answered his words with a grunt, and Lundy shrugged. The boy had been down in the mouth for some days, but sooner or later he'd open up and talk about it. Joseph LaFiamma could no more keep his mouth shut on a problem than he could fly, and when he was ready, Lundy would be there, just like always.

Yes, the day was normal, right down to the knock-down argument the two of them had midmorning. Lundy watched his partner storm out the door, slamming it behind him, and shook his head, catching the quirked smile of Estaban before the Mexican officer could hide it. Lundy ignored it, all too aware that the long-time officers in the station had running bets as to who would win the semi-regular shouting matches. The new officer, though, just out of the Academy, watched the two of them like they were hedgehogs on fire, ready to duck if either of them glanced his way.

Lundy frowned after his partner. Better give Joe some time to cool off – they were due to leave for an interview with a witness in fifteen anyway. The boy'd been picking fights more often recently, seemed like, though if Lundy was honest enough, he had to admit he did his share of shouting.

He shrugged and bent over his almost-finished report, determined to hand it in to Joanne before leaving.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Lundy stepped into the police parking lot, spotting his partner immediately. Joe sat slouched in his car, not even looking back at the building. Lundy sighed. Guess he was going to be listenin' to rock today. Hell, he could hear it from here. Faint music echoed from the car, and Lundy picked up his pace, already planning a suitably crushing remark for his sometimes infuriating partner.

There was no warning, no omen, and Lundy didn't even have any premonition as the car blew up, rocketing into a fireball within seconds.

That was the last thing Lundy remembered until he started to see spots, and realized that Estaban's arm was tight around his throat, holding him despite his desperate struggles. Blazing heat made him squint, and looking ahead, he saw the fiercely burning car less than ten feet away. Off balance, he stumbled backward as Estaban dragged him away.

A few breaths of cooler air suddenly brought memories back to Lundy, and looking back at the car, he tried to jerk away from Estaban. "No! Damn it, let me go! That's–"

Estaban's arm cut off his air, and Carol was suddenly there, her face grim as she caught his arm before he elbowed the Mexican officer in the gut.

"Stop it, Lundy! Stop it! It's too late!" Tears stood in her eyes as she twisted his arm into a lock, effectively immobilizing him in Estaban's grip.

"No," gritted Lundy, forced to stand still, eyes all for the burning car, now being showered by a hose. "No, it's not, that's–" He couldn't force the name, and closed his eyes, tears running soundlessly down his face.

The hold on his arm eased, and so did Estaban's choke, until both officers stood beside him, each with a hand on his shoulder. Joanne joined them, moving slowly. She raised her eyes to Lundy's and silently shook her head.

Lundy looked blindly past her, the flames blurred by tears. "No," he whispered. "No, damn it."

"I'm sorry, Levon." Joanne's voice shook. "But he died instantly." She took a breath, then turned to the two officers. "Take him to the hospital; see that he's looked at."

"Me? Why–"

Estaban took Lundy's hands and turned them palm up. Lundy stared at them in dull surprise, wondering where all the fierce blisters had come from. He didn't remember grabbing the door…

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Lundy walked stolidly out of the small treatment room, not acknowledging the intern's comments to his back about future appointments. Estaban stepped beside him as he headed toward the outside door, not saying a word as he kept pace. But the Texan stopped as Joanne entered, her face set carefully as she halted in front of him.

"The effects in the car all match Joe's, Levon," she said evenly. "There's no mistake. It's him."

Lundy paid no attention to the statement. "What about his guns?"

Joanne took a careful breath. "Levon, he wasn't wearing his guns, remember? Ballistics took them yesterday to check out for that shooting. But the serial number on the service revolver found in the car matches."

"I want to see the body." Lundy's voice was expressionless.

"No."

"That wasn't a request, Lieutenant. I want – to see – the body."

Joanne chewed at her cheek, her gaze swinging to meet Estaban's sympathetic one. "Levon, that fire was unusually hot. Everything in the car was burned to cinders. The only reason we even got the serial number off the gun was because it was blown through the back window. There's no chance–"

"I'm not askin' again, Lieutenant."

Joanne took a deep breath, abrupt tears welling in her eyes. "Damn it, Levon, don't you understand? There's nothing left!"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Lundy peered inside the vending machine, then stabbed the button of his choice, eyes narrowing as his item wobbled but remained on the shelf. Clenching a fist, he pounded on the glass, teeth gritted. He didn't hear the whisper of the wheelchair until a soft touch on his arm drew his attention, and he whirled, ready to dish out a biting comment to whoever had the gall to interrupt him.

The anger died a quick death when he met Annie's soft eyes, and he lowered his fist from the glass, fingers loosening. She tugged him down to her level without difficulty, pulling him into a close hug, and he closed his eyes and returned it.

Gently releasing him, she pushed her wheelchair through into the station room, and Lundy turned around and punched the machine with a strength that made it rock on all four wheels.

The bag of chips quivered, then fell, and Lundy stared down at it for a long moment before turning on his heel and storming out, helpless fury at what he wanted and couldn't have overwhelming him.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Now, Levon, you know I ain't gonna let you do that. Not now, not today." The big black man leaned on the bar, his eyes meeting Lundy's without faltering. Thursday night, one day after Joe…

"Damn it, Chicken, leave me t'hell alone! Get outta my face! And get me another beer." Lundy glared at the man, bitterly ignoring the other evening customers, who had been carefully staying out of the self-imposed space around the cop.

"Nope." The big man stood there, as immovable as the wall Lundy wished were still around his soul. How the hell could it hurt this much, losing Joe?

He lowered his head, closing his eyes against the solid friend beside him, all the anger flowing away into the pit of loneliness that had dogged him ever since he'd woken that morning. His shoulders slumped. "Damn it, Chicken."

A huge hand touched his shoulder. "I know, Levon. But running into a drink ain't gonna rid you of Joe. Hell, Levon, you know that. And you wouldn't want it to, neither."

Lundy sighed, not opening his eyes as Chicken moved around the bar and settled next to him.

"I remember," the deep-voiced man said softly, "when Joe got here, that first time. Stiff-necked, fancy dress and all, but he had guts. You got any idea the number of bets people took on the two of you breakin' up, Levon?"

Lundy shook his head, wordless.

"More times 'n I can rightly count. Everyone thought you'd only last a week, then two, then a month." He paused, downing half of Lundy's beer in a thoughtful swallow. "I said, no, no way. You was both in it for the long haul, and the only ones who didn't know that was the two of you."

Lundy's chuckle cracked. "Chicken, we fought like cats and dogs."

Chicken rose, patting his shoulder. "Yup. Some partners do. Some work, some don't. Yours was one of the best I've seen, and I've seen a few." He glanced around the almost-empty bar, then down at the still figure beside him. Taking off his apron, he sighed silently, adding, "Now you sit right there. It's closin' time, and I'll run you home. You're in no shape to drive, and I ain't about to let you."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Early afternoon light slanted through the police station, marking midday for the few officers working at their desks. A careful quiet reigned through the office, and several gazes followed the young man who entered, making his way hesitantly through the desks toward a grim figure sitting still at one of them.

"Uh, sir?"

Lundy blinked, the apprehensive words slowly penetrating the space he'd built around himself, realizing that he'd been staring at Joe's desk for God knew how long. The damned bonsai tree needed watering…

Turning, he looked up at the boy standing nervously beside him. Ben… Ben Joseph, that was it. God, he was young. Had he looked that young, just out of the Academy? Had Joe?

He shook his head, dislodging the question and realizing that the young officer had said something, the words sliding right by him. "Sorry," he said as the rookie looked at him expectantly, "didn't catch that."

Ben shifted foot to foot, then took a deep breath and held out a package. "Ballistics said to give you this, sir, said that he, uh, that your partner, uh, was cleared."

Lundy stared at the package, seeing the weapons outlined against the paper. A slow, boiling anger built up in his stomach, fury that a man's life could be reduced to a few embarrassed words by a rookie, a belated judgment by bureaucrats, a trash can overflowing with Chinese leftovers, an empty desk.

"'Bout damn time," he growled, the bitter anger in the tone making the young officer edge backward. Estaban caught the package out of his hands and stepped forward, sliding gracefully into the limelight as Ben retreated with grateful haste.

"Hey, amigo," the Mexican officer said gently as he laid the package on Lundy's desk, finding a clear space amongst the unusual clutter, "do not harm the messenger who brings bad news. It is not his fault, comprende?"

"No, I don't comprende!" Lundy bellowed, his chair flying backward with a crash as he stood, nearly taking out the young officer a few feet away, who caught it automatically. "What the hell am I supposed to comprende?! Tell me that!"

Estaban stood still, taking the blast of fury without moving, and his voice, when he spoke, was as warm and mellow as ever. "That we are your friends, amigo. Only that."

The quiet understanding in the tone unraveled the frustrated fury in Lundy's gut, and he sank down into the chair that Ben had just placed behind him. The reality of Joe's death finally started to sink in, and he leaned his head into his hands, suddenly aware of the silence of the squadroom. The partner he'd depended on, cared about, argued with… was gone.

An hour later, Lundy rose, and slowly, muscles aching, started to pack up Joe's desk, giving the bonsai tree to Annie, and boxing everything else. Estaban moved in to help, leaving his own work without a word.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The car exploded, and he watched as the blond in the cowboy hat threw himself toward the burning vehicle, only his intense focus enabling him to grab a door handle. Driven backward by the ferocious heat, his retreat was aided by a Hispanic who appeared at a run, dragging the blond away as other people poured out of the building. A woman helped subdue the blond, who stood, staring at the car, making no attempt to hide the tears running down his face.

The watcher stirred in his sleep, brows crooked in an intense frown, fists clenched. The alarm clock shrilled, and he jumped awake, then slammed a hand on the off button. The buzzer stopped, and he lay still, taking deep breaths, his heart bumping painfully under his ribs as he stared blankly into the predawn darkness. Lifting a hand, he rubbed it across his face, wondering at the wet that came away on his fingers.

 _Michael. Michael Shapiro_. The words welled up slowly, traced in his mind like a child's first written alphabet. _Just hired as a janitor in the Children's Hospital in Lombard. Orphan. No wife, no family, no friends._

He frowned up at the dusty ceiling, hidden except for swinging flashes of light as headlights passed on the nearby road. No friends. But…?

He shook his head, moving stiffly to a seated position. He had to move to get to work on time. Didn't need his new boss mad at him the first day.

Standing, he staggered to the wall, catching his balance with a jerk and leaning on the wall for a moment before flipping the on-switch, wincing at the bald glare from the hanging light bulb. His fingers trailed across the wall, and he frowned. _Shouldn't the light switch be over there_ …?

He shrugged the puzzlement away. He'd just moved; of course things would seem wrong for a while. Anyway, this place was better than his last one, that was for sure. He glanced around the bare bedroom, his gaze lingering on the worn dresser set against the far wall. _No mirror_?

 _First thing to buy_ , he thought as he turned to his small closet, wincing as the hinges whined, _a mirror. And some WD40 and furniture polish_.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"You're sure he's dead?" The man puffed on a cigar, blue eyes sharp on the two men standing before him.

"I do good work, Mr. Drake," the one with the strange eyes said dismissively. "You don't have to worry. The Agency never did."

"Ummm," Drake grunted, trying to decide how he'd describe those eyes. Agate, that was it… and eerie… definitely eerie. But then, what did you expect of a man who could literally slide through someone's brain marrow, erasing identities like so much smoke? And if his reputation was to be believed, that was just what the government had trained him to do. Now that talent was out there to be hired, and he had done just that. His only regret was that Joseph LaFiamma would never know what had happened to him.

"Uh, sir, with all due respect," the second man said hesitantly, "a sample of three is not very large, even if the success rate was one hundred percent. If Sergeant LaFiamma should ever regain his memory–"

Agate Eyes turned to stare at him, effectively cutting the man off mid-sentence.

Drake grunted irritably and stared down his subordinate. "Mark, for God's sake, it's a little late in the game to be worrying about that. Mr. Tren here has done his job successfully every single time; I checked his references and they're good. Why should Sergeant LaFiamma be any different from the rest of them?" He waved his cigar impatiently as Mark opened his mouth. "We've already had this discussion, and as far as I'm concerned it's over. Yes, the sergeant is the first police officer this has been tried on, but I don't see why that should pose a problem. Now enough!"

Mark closed his mouth obediently. "Yes, sir."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Michael pushed the mop across the tiles, listening to the chatter of children on the floor above. The Home was a large building, ceilings and staircases constructed in the old days of the South, so voices echoed through the large rooms, and when children ran down the winding staircases – which was often – the noise alerted everyone in the halls below to clear a passage. Such a place allowed a good deal of space and freedom for the children. It also meant an enormous amount of cleaning by the custodial staff.

He had grown up here, though his memories were fuzzy, limited to lots of sunlight, large rooms, and friendly, if pitying, treatment by adults. No one had wanted to adopt a simple child, so when he was old enough he was sent to custodial training, and after a few jobs elsewhere he was hired at the Home. Funny, though – the place didn't feel all that familiar, but then, that happened when one returned to childhood haunts as an adult.

Michael smiled at one particularly loud shriek, then noticed his supervisor watching him, an older Hispanic man, dressed in the same dark blue uniform he himself wore, and bent to his mopping, not looking up until the man turned a corner. Once the man was gone, though, Michael stopped with a sigh, looking longingly toward the huge lawn, sunlit in the early morning, seen through a nearby picture window. It was only an hour since he he'd arrived, and even on this, his first day, he already felt as if he were jailed. He'd met most of his coworkers this morning, immediately feeling out of place and alone. They spoke Spanish, for the most part, and though his knowledge of Italian enabled him to understand most of what they said, once he spoke it was patently obvious that they didn't share a language, and the mismatch struck them as funny.

And he didn't know how to do the job. That was clear after the first two minutes when his supervisor handed him a mop and indicated the hallway he was now cleaning. The man had watched him try to figure out how to wring the mop out, and then lifted it out of his hands, showing him the correct method with the attitude of strained patience that some people reserve for the very young, the very old, and the simple. Which was exactly what the man considered him, Michael knew, and sighed, pushing the mop forward again before dropping it into the bucket. It took a few minutes before he could remember the exact sequence of movements he'd been shown to wring it out.

Simple. Dumb. It wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't had references and job descriptions that showed he had done this kind of work before, but he did, and he had, and you'd never know it to watch him. He glanced again through the picture window, eying the clear blue sky and large shade trees longingly. Why couldn't he have been trained in lawn maintenance or something like that?

He sighed and turned to start the next swath, starting slightly as he saw his silent observer. The little girl couldn't have been above four, and he smiled at her, the smile widening as she took a step backward and looked at him with big dark eyes, sober. Her coal-black hair was in braids, and he wondered if she were Native. Wasn't it considered rude in some cultures to look them in the eyes? He looked aside, and she cocked her head at him, then gestured.

Glancing back at her, he smiled tentatively, then leaned the mop against the wall and signed to her, his lips twitching as her eyes grew very large and she blossomed into a smile. Her hands flew, the movements the equivalent of a spate of excited talk, and he grinned and replied, the conversation lasting for several minutes until he noticed a young woman moving purposefully down the hallway toward them, smiling resignedly.

The little girl – Rebecca, she'd told him – stopped signing when she saw the woman, and Mike's hands dropped.

"Rebecca," the young woman said aloud, signing simultaneously and offering Mike a smile, "you know better than to run off like that. You have to finish making your bed before you can go play, so come along."

Rebecca wrinkled her nose in disgust, but started toward the stairs at the end of the hallway, turning to give Mike a spirited goodbye and impish smile.

The young woman turned to him after watching to make sure Rebecca started up the stairs. "Thank you," she said, offering a hand. Mike took it, then remembered who he was and quickly released it. "I'm Loren Eisely, counselor here. You sign very well, Mister…?"

"Michael," he said quickly. "Just Michael is fine."

"Michael," she said obligingly. "Rebecca has very few people who can talk with her, and once she finds a new one she won't leave you alone for a while."

Mike shrugged, smiling. "That's fine by me. She seems like a great little kid."

Loren chuckled. "Well, it's very nice of you to help her out, but feel free to tell her you're busy and can't talk if she gets in your way." She glanced at her watch and shook her head, turning toward the staircase. "Got to go. Glad to meet you, Michael."

"Glad to meet you, Ms. Eisely," Michael said as he watched her run up the stairs, conflicting feelings warring within him. He wanted to smile at her, ask her out for dinner, see if she liked dancing, etc., but he also knew who he was, and janitors did not date counselors, especially simple janitors.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Yeah, I offed him," the thirty-ish man said, the insolent smirk on his face making Lundy ache to wipe it off with a clenched fist. He leaned against the observation window, watching Carol and Joe-Bill run the man through interrogation like the experts that they were.

A few minutes later they exited the room, their expressions similar to someone forced to examine a garbage landfill for evidence.

Joanne met them impatiently. "Well?"

Carol shrugged. "He says that he saw an opportunity for an easy hit and easy money, and took it. Joe just happened to be available when he came by."

"And what about the deal?" Lundy's bitter question beat Joanne's by a second. "LaFiamma was supposed to be safe in Houston."

Estaban touched his shoulder, Lundy shrugging it off with a curt movement. Estaban exchanged glances with the other officers, and said gently, "Easy money draws rats from a distance. Perhaps LaFiamma was fortunate that others did not try to kill him before this."

"Is he afraid of reprisal?" Joanne asked, watching Lundy's stare toward the interrogation room.

Joe-Bill shook his head. "No. He says that power is shifting in the Family, and Mike LaFiamma's star is setting. If he's scared that Joe's uncle might have something to say about this, he's not letting on."

Joanne sighed. "All right. Book him for murder one of a police officer. I want him to go down for this one."

"Lotta good that'll do Joe," muttered Lundy as he turned toward his desk.

"It'll be something," Joanne said firmly. "Good work, you two," she said to Carol and Joe-Bill as they headed toward the interrogation room, not quite looking at Lundy as they moved off.

Estaban met her stare as she glanced after the Texan, shaking his head at her. "No, Lieutenant. He cannot hear you yet, and anything you say will be like wind in his ears."

Joanne drew a breath, then released it in a soft sigh. "I know, Estaban. But he can't keep going on like this. I don't trust him out on the street yet; hell, I don't trust him in the station, and no one else does, either."

Estaban glanced after the man, then looked back at her. "Let him be, Lieutenant. Time is what he needs, and nothing you say can give that to him. Work will do him good, also."

Joanne stood still for a long moment, then nodded. "All right, Estaban. After Joe, you know him better than anyone. Now that I'm lieutenant, he doesn't talk to me like he used to, but I remember my partner, and I think you're right. I just hope that I can give him that time."

"Amen to that, Lieutenant."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Mike closed the front door of his apartment behind him with a foot, moving to the small kitchen to set the grocery bags down. Glancing around, he shook his head in wry disgust. Boy, this place was dirty. What it needed was a good cleaning. And to top it all off, he couldn't remember where he'd put everything. Too new yet.

He started opening cabinets and drawers, inspecting dishes and food and their storage. Good thing he'd checked the refrigerator this morning; it had had nothing but bad-smelling leftovers, and he had promptly thrown them all out. His banking account had several hundred in it, so some careful shopping had netted the necessities.

He hummed as he put the food away, setting aside the take-out Chinese dinner on the counter and sniffing appreciatively as its aroma quickly filled up the place. Closing the refrigerator door on the last of his groceries, he grabbed dinner and headed toward the small living room, where he sank down onto the worn sofa and looked around for the remote for the TV.

After a few minutes of fruitless looking, he glanced back at the TV and frowned. What was he thinking? He'd never had a remote, and the TV itself was so old it wasn't even set up for one. Shaking his head, he got up and manually flipped the channels to the local news, grimacing at the scratchy picture. At least it was viewable.

Finishing the meal, he sat watching idly as the newscaster discussed the plight of education in Lombard, then flipped it off with a surge of irritation as it moved to a police investigation of a black councilman's murder.

Wandering through the house, he reacquainted himself with it, opening doors and checking cupboards, making note of the cleaners he had and hiking an eyebrow when the bottle of concentrated citrus acid came to light, obviously left by the landlord. He was dismayed by the dirt and grime and cobwebs he found, and set himself a list of cleaning chores.

Reaching the bedroom, he stood for a moment, hands on hips, surveying it. _First things first_ , he thought, moving back to the bathroom to dig out the WD40 and heading purposely for his closet door. After he had it oiled to his satisfaction, he went out to his car for a moment, then started moving furniture – the bed into a corner away from the window, the dresser under the window, the full-length mirror he'd just brought in from the car into another corner. Bringing out the furniture polish, he carefully worked it into every inch of the dresser and the mirror frame, then stood back to survey his handiwork. Not bad for furniture obviously picked up in a secondhand furniture store, and they looked much better clean.

 _Now..._ he checked in vain for a window cleaner, then checked the citrus acid label and shrugged. Worth a try. His eyebrows climbed when he examined the results, then he smiled, going on to use it on the mirror, then the other windows, and finally onto the bathroom counters, the kitchen counters, the stove, the refrigerator, and finally, around midnight, he mopped the floors with it, smiling at the fresh smell and shining results.

Climbing into bed at last, tired but satisfied, he pulled the covers up and settled in. Rolling over, he smiled as he remembered his conversation with Rebecca and Ms. Eisley, drifting off to sleep with that as a talisman against the sick despair that settled into the pit of his stomach as the rest of his life emerged from the minutia of the evening's concentration.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Frank? Brad here. I've got some good news for you, brother."

"Yeah? Well, I could use some. I'm getting real tired of prison food, and the company is pretty bad."

"Hang loose, Frank. Just remember that parole is just around the bend. Hey, you remember Sergeant LaFiamma?"

"Remember him? Sure, I remember him – the punk cop put me away!"

"Well, I got him for you, Frankie. I got him."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

_The car seat was hard under him, the unfamiliar windshield cutting out some of the Texas glare. He glanced over as a car pulled up beside him, staring straight into the muzzle of the gun pointed at him. He only had time for a quick flash of chagrin at his own stupidity before the weapon boomed. He jerked, then watched in amazement as the would-be assassin crumbled. Turning, he saw the blond, gun still centered on the hitman. Lowering it, the blond approached. "You might've told me you had friends in town, LaFiamma. I wouldn't've thought you was doggin' it."_

Michael woke with a start, the alarm buzzer shrilling through the room. Groping, he slammed a hand on it, cutting it off and lying back into the blissful silence. Lying there, adrenalin pumping through him, he gradually managed to relax, forcing tense muscles to loosen. _Who was that blond? And what did he call me_?

Michael shook his head. Silly. It was just a dream, so what did it matter what the man had called him?

But it did, and that knowledge stayed with him through all the chores of that day, the question echoing around every corner and across every newly-mopped floor.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Who the hell do you think you are, mister!" Lundy strode across the empty station room toward the stranger who was inspecting Joe's desk.

The man turned, and Lundy's eyes narrowed as familiarity blossomed. Older, the stranger had an invisible sense of power that cloaked him, and his face was set in angry lines that matched Lundy's. He looked like someone else…

"Who are you to demand that of me?" The voice was accented, the speech somewhat formal.

"Levon Lundy," the officer said, his jaw tight. "And that's my partner's d–" He stumbled to a halt as grief broadsided him, unable to hide the flash of pain that echoed across his features.

The older man looked down at the boxes sitting on the desk and floor, his own muscles bunched. "Not any more, officer. Not any more. Thanks to you."

"What the hell–"

"Levon, please." Joanne had obviously arrived early, and now she stood between the two men, her voice taut. Her neutral expression told Lundy that she wasn't happy with the circumstances but had no choice. "This is Mr. Michael Lafiamma. Joe's uncle."

Lundy took a step closer, fury swinging through him. "Well, you did a real job on your nephew, Mr. Uncle Mike." He parroted the name, pronouncing it as Joe had and ignoring Joanne's attempt to break in. "Guess that guy was right, and your star's setting. Too bad Joe had t' pay the price."

Uncle Mike swung on him, and despite himself Lundy saw the grief edging the man's eyes, lining his mouth. And the anger. "Mr. Lundy, it's your job that got my nephew killed. I don't know what he was working on, but the answer to his death lies in Houston, not Chicago. Perhaps if you'd done your job right, Joey would be alive now."

"Why, you–"

"No, Lundy!" Joanne stepped between them as another man joined the mob boss, hefting a box at the man's gesture and exiting toward the parking lot. Another followed him, casting a dark glance at Lundy as he lifted the last box and followed his employer out the door.

"Stop right there, Levon. That's an order!"

Lundy stopped midway across the squad room, shoulders tense and fists clenched, ignoring the curious and wary glances of the entering morning shift.

"Let him go, Lundy," Joanne said firmly as she joined him, watching as the limousine swung gracefully out of the parking lot. "He's got every right to be here, even if you don't like it. Leave him alone."

Lundy watched the car vanish around a curve, and slowly looked down at her. His shoulders ached. "What's he doin' here, Joanne?"

Joanne inhaled a sigh. "Taking care of Joe's affairs, Lundy. Someone has to, you know. He'll be here a few more days, and I don't want you harassing him, understood?"

Lundy lowered his head, turning blindly back to his desk. "Yeah. Yeah, I understand."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Michael looked up at the sign proclaiming "Ben's Barbeque Joint," and frowned, unease roiling through him.

"Come on, Mike!" Jesus gestured him through the door, his frown impatient. "I said I'd show you the best ribs in town, and this is it. You won't find anything else like this around here, so come on and enjoy it!"

Michael stepped inside and stopped again, overwhelmed by the rich smells, the dim lighting, the country music swelling from speakers, and most especially by the long counter that Jesus was motioning him toward.

Something close to panic made him shiver, and the mélange of feelings that surged over him stopped him again after one step toward the bar. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to join Jesus, focusing on one step at a time.

"Come on, Mike, just climb right up here." Jesus patted the seat beside him, his tone patient.

Irritation coiled in Michael's stomach, and that, together with the scents, the music and the unsorted confusion surging through him, forced him to swallow hard, tasting bile at the back of his throat. He obediently swung up onto the seat, eying the workers behind the counter nervously.

"See? Wasn't that bad, huh?" Jesus grinned at him. "And hey, you climbed up there like you've done it a thousand times. Now sit and enjoy the best ribs you're ever going to get this side of Houston!"

Michael managed a weak smile, glad when Jesus turned back to the server, ordering for both of them, an act which would normally have angered him further. This time, though... this time, he was just glad to be spared the necessity to think.

Feelings surged through him, one wave merging into another. Camaraderie, comfort, safety, and over all, a crashing familiarity. But… it was wrong.

He frowned at the young woman who delivered their plates of ribs, apprehension twisting through him as she smiled at him. An older black man crossed the open kitchen door, and Michael's heart leaped for a moment. "Chicken?"

"Naw, just pork and beef ribs," said Jesus, busily munching his way through his plate.

Mike frowned, lifting his ribs and taking a bite. Why had he said that?

The ring of pool balls behind him interrupted the thought and he twisted to look, the movement catching Jesus' attention. "Hey, you want to try some?" he offered, the mildness of the words not entirely able to hide the glint in his eyes. "I can show you some moves."

"Yes," said Mike, chewing his ribs absently. The sound was irritable, and he smiled as he slid off the chair, heading toward an empty table.

Half an hour later, the glint was gone from Jesus' eyes, replaced by bewilderment.

"Number two in the side pocket, number 4 in the corner," said Mike as he lined up the cue with the cue ball. He made his shot, and the two balls rolled smoothly to their appointed destinations, punctuated by Jesus' sigh.

"Well," he said dolefully, "I think I'll be getting home, Mike. Your apartment's right around the corner, but be careful going home, okay? Anytime you want to show me some moves, just let me know."

"Uh-huh," said Mike, moving around the table to take another shot.

It was a long time before he got home that night.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

 _Now, why does he seem so familiar_? Loren Eisely thought as she watched Michael rack up the pool balls yet again. _Especially when I know I've never seen him before_. She shook her head, frustrated, a movement that caught the attention of her tablemate.

"What's wrong, Lor?" The voice was low, and Kate Reardon, a dark-haired, athletic woman, eyed her curiously. The nickname was casual, the only affection they allowed themselves out in public. Domestic partners weren't exactly popular in Texas, and both Loren and Kate were very much aware of their uncertain status.

Loren shook her head, eyes still on Michael, smiling as she watched him speak courteously to an older Hispanic woman readying herself to leave. Michael was obviously offering to escort her home, and Loren's smile widened as she turned back to her lover. "Oh, it's just the new janitor. He keeps reminding me of someone, and I can't figure out why."

Kate's eyebrows peaked, and she turned to look, but the door had just swung shut behind Michael and the woman, and Loren sighed. "Drat. I was hoping you could tell me why he's bothering me. He's okay, Kate," she said in response to the wary look she got from her partner. "He's not familiar in a bad way, just… familiar, that's all."

Kate cocked an eyebrow at her, then cleared the expression as her cell phone beeped. Picking it up, the conversation was brief and monosyllabic, and Loren frowned at her when she pressed the off button. "Do you have to go in?"

Kate smiled at her. "No, not this time. My partner was just telling me that we're testifying tomorrow on the rape case. They moved it up a day, so he wanted me to be ready."

"Oh," was all Loren said, but the relief in the single syllable was obvious, and Kate's lips curved a little more.

"Being a cop's lover is hell, huh, sweetheart?"

The sentence couldn't have been heard by the next table, but Loren smiled wryly. "Sometimes, but it's you, so I wouldn't trade."

"Glad to hear it," said Detective Reardon.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Hell, Chicken, between that hitman this mornin' and 'Uncle Mike' showin' up this afternoon, I'm fallin' behind."

"So they caught him, huh?" Chicken rumbled, sliding a plateful of ribs in front of Lundy. "Knew they would."

"Yep." Lundy poked his fork into the meat, then speared a few beans on its tines. Staring at them, he added, "Harry Streinan, just out from Chicago, or so he says. Just couldn't resist scoring on Joe." He heaved a sigh, the fork dropping from his fingers.

"Now you eat that, Levon, or so help me, I'll feed it to you. You haven't eaten much more 'n a bite here since Joe died, and I'll wager you eat even less at home." Chicken stared meaningfully at the plate, and Lundy sighed, picking up a rib with an effort.

"Harry Streinan, huh?" Chicken mused, settling in across from Lundy and keeping a watchful eye on his progress. "I know that name. He takes falls for other folks, does their time, gets out and does it again. Well paid for it, I hear."

Lundy stared at him, fork in midair. "You sure about this, Chicken?"

"Sure I'm sure, Levon." Chicken eyed the fork and Lundy absently lifted it, chewing automatically. "Haven't heard of him in a while, though, and he's only done small time things before this, two to seven years, like. Maybe things've changed."

"Yeah," Lundy mused, cleaning a rib bone with mindless efficiency, "maybe so." He looked up at Chicken with sudden energy burning through him. "But now we have a clue. If he didn't do it, then who did? And why? Maybe La–" Old enthusiasm ran into the nightmare wall of reality, and his voice died. His shoulders slumped and he hunched over the plate, the rib listless in his fingers.

Chicken gritted his teeth against the knife-edged silence, then cleared his throat and reached to lay a hand on Lundy's shoulder. "It won't bring him back, Levon, but at least you'll know who killed him and why. That's gotta count for somethin'."

"Yeah." Lundy raised his head, his jaw set. "I'm gonna get him, Chicken. Whoever killed Joe's gonna pay. I'll make sure of it."

The words were soft, and Chicken glanced away from the burning emptiness behind Lundy's eyes.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Curled up in the large blue-cushioned chair, Mike tried to relax, closing his eyes against the dull grey of the break room. Vending machines hummed, and he soaked up the noise, using it to block out the rest of his life, trying to escape the fierce boredom that gripped him, although where he wanted to escape to he had no idea. Anywhere but here.

He was a stranger in a strange land… where had he read that? It was true, though. He didn't belong here, he was an intruder, alien, different… wrong. He sighed, trying to snuggle deeper into the chair, shut it all out, make it go away…

_Fire bubbled, intense heat buffeting him. The blond was yelling, darting in as close to the burning car as he could, then dancing backward as the ferocious heat drove him away. He grabbed the blond, dragging him off, fighting hard to hold him. Gasping against the heat, the blond fought with all the strength that passion and memories of pain could give him, but he held firm, saying only, "You couldn't have saved her–"_

The door slammed, and Mike was out of his chair, crouched and ready for attack before he realized it was only Jesus, trailed by Loren Eisely, both of whom stared at him in shock. But Jesus' look melted quickly into pity, while Loren's seemed that of shocked recognition. But it was gone so quickly that even as Mike straightened, embarrassment flaming high in his face, she smiled at him, cutting off Jesus' comment mid-word.

"I'm terribly sorry, Michael. That darn door always slams if you're not careful, and I forgot. It's enough to make me jump out of my skin, and you're not the first I've seen startled at it."

Michael drew a deep breath, fighting to control the fierce surge of adrenalin that left him shaking. "No, no problem," he managed, forcing a smile. "I was just dozing, that's all. Took me by surprise." He shook his head, then glanced up at the clock over the door. "Anyway, my time's up." He looked at Loren, then away. "I'll see you around," he muttered, and pushed the door open, catching it before it slammed behind him and closing it gently.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

 _I'll be damned_ , thought Loren as she settled down in the break room with a bag of chips and a newspaper. _That's what he reminds me of. A police officer. He moves just like one._ She frowned at the paper, not reading the words as she remembered the young attractive Italian who'd signed so animatedly with Rebecca. But even then, something about him had reminded her of a little boy, lost in some maze with no one to go to for help. Yet just now he'd acted like a police officer under attack, and no janitor could ever look so dangerous. _Now, Loren_ , she cautioned herself, _other people besides police officers could react that way. After all, what do you know about his past? He could be someone else completely._

But even so, she couldn't help remembering the time she'd seen Kate react with the same move to their dogs' sudden entry into the house, the same taut awareness of surroundings, the same crouched readiness, the same razor-edge of danger, right down to the fierce embarrassment afterward.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Mike carefully wiped the last drops of water from the final dish and set it on the counter, watching as Maria dried her hands and started to put the china away. _She's like my grandmother_ , he thought, then blinked, shaking the thought away as he moved out of her way.

" _Gracias, senora_ ," he said as she exited the kitchen a few minutes later. "Your cooking and your hospitality are wonderful." He shifted slightly, uncomfortable with the formality of the words, but the courtesy of the older Hispanic woman seemed to require them, and since she had invited him home for supper the second night he'd walked her home, he felt obliged to play by her rules.

She bent her head, saying only, " _De nada_ , Michael."

When he made to leave, however, she fluttered around him, settling his jacket in place, smoothing his hair, and pushing a package of homemade tortillas into his hands. "Now you will come back, _es verdad, si_?"

"Yes, ma'am," Mike said obediently, bending to touch his lips to her weathered hand, a move that won him a pleased flush from her and a warm kiss on the cheek as she opened the door for him.

On the sidewalk again, her door safely closed behind him, he hunched his shoulders against the spring chill of the evening, glancing around the neighborhood thoughtfully. He was only three blocks from his apartment, and remembering the increasingly familiar street layout, he turned left and started walking. Last night the walk home had taken him fifteen minutes, but tonight he was fairly sure that he knew a way that could shorten that time.

Fifteen minutes later, he stopped, sighing. _Short cuts make long delays_ , he remembered hearing somewhere, and this was no exception. He was still pretty sure he knew where he was, but unfamiliar streets had turned him in circles. Maybe around this corner…

He followed the curve of the sidewalk, glancing around for landmarks as he came into a new street. Good, good, home was merely two blocks away now, and–

His gaze swept across the street and he froze mid-step. That house… That house… He _knew_ that house… He moved closer, crossing the street in a single-minded move that caused him to completely miss the car that swept down the road to park two houses down. Standing in front of the house, he stared at it fixedly.

Good-sized and weathered, the place had a deserted feel to it. The yard needed mowing, and dandelions poked their yellow heads from some corners. But there was an air of orderliness and hominess to it that tugged at him, and he stepped closer, his gaze sweeping over the small porch and swing, the steps leading cozily up to them, the door that promised an entryway into… what? He shook his head, stepping away. What was he thinking? He'd never seen this house before today, so why did it feel as if he knew it?

Because he did. He'd sat on that porch, walked through that door, known the warmth of those walls as a home.... _I'm going crazy_ , he thought tightly, backing away from the house as fear raked down his spine. An old phrase danced through his mind, _Want to come?_ , and he shook his head, turning away from the house and starting toward his apartment at a quick pace just short of a run.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"It don't make any sense, Joanne."

The brown-haired lieutenant shook her head, silently glad she was back on Lundy's good side. She'd missed her friend, and being on a first name basis again relaxed her in ways she hadn't known she was tense. "I don't understand it, either, Lundy, but it means something, or they wouldn't have notified us. But since you're the one who arrested Frank Riven, it involves you."

Lundy turned his Stetson in his hands, looking down at it. "All right. Tell me how it goes."

Joanne glanced down her notes. "All right. That was the assistant district attorney. Frank Riven died in prison two days ago, strangled. Rumor has it he stepped on some toes, and his cellmate's afraid of getting caught in the backlash. He's trying to plea bargain his way into another prison, with the information that Frank and his brother put something over the cops in Houston. And he gave the name of a doctor, though he didn't know what the man did. I had Annie run them both through the databases, but as far as we can tell, Riven didn't have a brother, and the doctor looks legit." She handed the sheaf of notes to Lundy, who took it with a puzzled frown.

"Well, I sure don't know what I'll do with it, Joanne, but I'll keep my ears open. Maybe somethin' will come up."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

" _Si, si, es mi hija aqui. Y su esposo_." The soft murmur of Spanish washed over Mike as he entered the custodial meeting room the next morning, and he sighed as he automatically translated it into Italian. The older woman glanced up, smiling at him as he wandered over to join the small group of women clustered around her. She indicated the pictures in her lap with a proud gesture, and he eyed the open photo album politely.

" _Es mi esposo_ ," she said, tapping a picture of an older, distinguished looking man seated at a table on a long veranda. " _Y mi hijo y su ninos. Estoy su abuela_."

"They're beautiful grandchildren," Mike said obediently, trying not to frown over the pictures. "And your husband looks very handsome."

" _Y su familia_?" she asked, the smile fading at the frown he couldn't banish fast enough.

"They're… I'm an orphan."

"Ah," she said, then smiled at him. "You shall build your own family someday, Michael." She bent over the pictures again as Mike backed away, trying not to look as if he was running.

Safe on the other side of the room, he paused, trying to pin down his whirling feelings. He was… confused, he decided. Why did family feel so familiar, and yet so… removed? It made no sense. He was an orphan; no wife, no family, no friends. But…

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Kate…"

"Umm?"

The pause was so long that Kate lowered the sheaf of papers she was inspecting to frown up at her lover. "Loren? Something wrong?"

"No," answered the counselor, leaning on the back of Kate's chair. "But I wanted to ask you a favor."

"Ask away," said Kate, her frown lightening.

"Could you look up Michael Shapiro for me?"

Kate's eyebrows furrowed. "Who is he?"

"Well, as far as I know he's the new janitor at the Home, but... well, he just feels wrong. For a janitor," she hurriedly added as the police glint in her lover's eyes sharpened. "He's just– Can you do it?"

Kate sat for a long moment, tapping her fingers on the folder she held, thinking. At last she looked up and reluctantly shook her head. "I'm sorry, love, but right now I'm just swamped from that councilman's murder. Ask me next week, okay? It sounds like it can wait that long."

Loren sighed. "All right. It's not urgent, but– Kate, you know I wouldn't ask this lightly."

Kate nodded. "I know. But if it can wait until next week, that would help."

Loren hesitated, then nodded. "Okay. Next week."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Lundy poured the wine into two glasses, his coordination wavering just slightly. The man across from him didn't seem to notice, though.

Lundy placed the wine bottle carefully on the table and hefted his glass. "To Joe!" he said, drinking it down.

"To my nephew!" agreed his companion, swigging the glass in one draught. "And to perdition with those who killed him!"

"Amen!" the two chorused, pouring and drinking down another slug.

Chicken shook his head as he wiped down the bar, eying Lundy and Michael LaFiamma with something akin to wonder. Who would've guessed that the two men would get on this well? Joe must've told his uncle about Chicken's, since the black man didn't think his reputation had quite spread to Chicago. How else would the Italian mobster have come wandering in about two hours before? Him and his bodyguards, who were as silent as the walls at Michael LaFiamma's back, but not nearly so easy to ignore.

Maybe it was true that you could drown your sorrows with alcohol. It certainly seemed to make these two bosom buddies. But Chicken wasn't minded to let Lundy drink himself under the table, not tonight or any night for a while yet. Maybe something else could come out of this chance meeting. No harm in trying. He nodded to himself and moved over to the booth, smoothly replacing the nearly-empty whiskey bottle with a beer.

"You made any progress on Joe's case, Levon?" he rumbled.

Lundy wiped his mouth on a napkin, his eyes never leaving the glass in his hand, which Chicken filled halfway. "Nope," he said succinctly. "That doctor don't show up as nothin' but legit, and unless something crawls out of the woodwork, we're outta the case."

"Which doctor?" questioned Michael LaFiamma, refilling his glass with a deft touch that only partially hid the drops trailing down the outside of the glass or the small puddle pooling around its base.

"He ain't no witch doctor," protested Lundy solemnly.

This struck both men as hilariously funny, and Chicken swallowed a sigh. Much more of this and they'd have to call it a night.

"Nope," said Lundy, once he'd recovered his equilibrium. "Dr. Markady's a 'man of honor,'" he pontificated, hefting his glass. "Ain't nothin' on the man's record except medals."

"Markady?" slurred the mobster. "James Markady?"

"Yep," said Lundy, turning to study him with half-glazed eyes. "What about 'im?"

"He makes people disappear," said Michael LaFiamma, the words remarkably clear given the state of the speaker.

"You sayin' the man _is_ a witch doctor?"

Chuckles erupted from both men, but Lundy's police sense was steadying his focus on the conversation.

"No," said the Italian, enunciating carefully. "He makes people dis-ap-pear. Snitches who're too good, reporters who get too close to a par-tic-u-lar truth, and other such." He waved a hand, peering at Lundy over his glass as he took another swig. "He makes 'em into someone else… and they dis-ap-pear."

There was a long silence as the meaning of his words percolated through the alcohol, and when Lundy spoke again there was no blurring of his words. "Are you sayin' what I think you're sayin'?"

Michael LaFiamma studied him, his own eyes bright and focused. "Yes, Detective Lundy, I think I am."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Mike pushed open his front door, automatically scanning the room by the lowering sun before stepping inside, then thumbed on a light and moved slowly to the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, he studied the shelves, then bent and removed the Chinese leftovers from the night before, which he carried to the table and opened. Sitting down, he stared at the food, his gaze unfocused.

He had been fighting the feelings of unreality all day, but now, sitting in his tiny apartment after working all day at a job that bored him to death, the sense of being 'on-stage,' as it were, only grew stronger. The impression that he had been given a part to play, a wrong part to play, wrapped around him, all the more powerful for his aching loneliness.

He rose, absently pulling the shades across the front window and moving through the apartment until he stood in his bedroom, staring at himself in the full-length mirror. Sunlight filtered through the open window, bright enough to see himself reflected, and slowly, he started to strip.

Finally, he stood and stared at himself, eying the nude reflection with an intense scrutiny, studying the well-muscled shoulders, sloping down to firm ribs and stomach, well-honed buttocks, legs sinewy with strength…

Frowning, he turned away at last from the fading image, moving to pull the curtains against the growing dark. As he climbed into bed, he wondered if he was dreaming all this, and might wake up any moment. But where would he be if he did? And who?

_He stood next to an open window, darkness brimming outside, a wary alertness thrumming through him. His gaze was on the blond, though, who studied him. "I might as well just ace myself, Lundy. Better that than dying alone."_

_The blond lowered his eyes, and silence rested between them._

Alone… The word echoed through Mike's mind, and his dream reality shifted.

_Flames surged upward from the fiercely burning car, and the blond came in at a dead run, managing to get both hands on the door handle before the heat drove him backwards into the trained chokehold of the Hispanic._

Mike found himself sitting in a car a short distance from the scene, watching the blond through a darkened window and hazy vision. _Drugged_ , he thought dimly. But even as he sat in the car, he also stood outside the scene, simultaneously aware of the blond's struggles against the chokehold and his own internal battle against the lethargy that held him helpless in the car. _That's my partner out there, damn it, thinking I'm in that car!_ He wouldn't – couldn't – just sit here and let it happen!

He moved jerkily, leaning forward toward the door, but the man sitting next to him simply smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder, forcing him back with all the ease of handling a child. "No, no, Sergeant. I have you now, and you're only going where I say. Now relax."

Mike found his muscles following the order, while his mind screamed against it. Then there was only blankness.

Mike took a deep breath, opening his eyes into darkness. He was awake, the dream clear in his mind, and he lay for a moment, enjoying the cool alertness that felt so familiar. Against the clarity of the dream scenes Mike placed the reality of his own life, and studying the two layouts set against each other on his mental blackboard, he frowned. _My life is like a series of pictures posted on cardboard, with just about as much connection to them. And to me._

He paused, letting the realization seep through him. Rising, he pulled the curtains and moved to stand before the mirror again, moonlight marking his path. The image was dim, but visible, and he stared at himself, brows furrowing. _I don't know who that blond was, or what he called me or I called him, but he cared about me. He thought I was in that car, and these dreams feel more real than my memories of childhood at the Home or my training as a janitor. Something doesn't fit here._ He rolled his shoulders thoughtfully, watching the coordinated movement in the mirror. _I don't fit here_.

A sudden thought twanged through him, and he turned to close the curtains and flip on the small lamp that he'd bought the day before. Staring at his image, he stepped closer, then shivered. Something had bothered him about his reflection ever since his first day in Lombard, and now he knew what it was.

He was tanned. Very tanned. And… He leaned closer, then glanced down at himself, tracing the puckered scar that edged his ribs, then skipping to another over his hips. Bullet wound and knife, he somehow knew.

 _Now how does a janitor come by scars like these? Or get this tanned?_ "

 _Simple answer_ , he thought. _He doesn't._

_Then who am I?_

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Dr. Markady?" Lundy's tone was brusque, and the dark-haired man, sitting behind a desk framed by shelves of heavy medical volumes, frowned, his eyes narrowing.

"Yes?"

"You know this man?" Lundy shoved a picture of Joe in front of him, his tone leaving no doubt that he expected the doctor to recognize LaFiamma. Behind him, Estaban stood, his eyes holding a spark that left no doubt he would back Lundy up in a moment.

The doctor lifted the picture, studying it for a long moment. "No, I'm afraid not. Should I?"

"Look again, _senor_." Estaban's voice was silky, but the steel in it made the man look up, uneasy. "The truth would be a wise choice."

Dr. Markady studied the picture again, then shook his head decisively. "No, I've never seen–"

Lundy's hands closed on the doctor's jacket, who abruptly found himself shoved into the corner, shelves pressing uncomfortably into his back.

"Let me tell you somethin', Doctor. That man's my partner, and I think you know what happened to him. I'm goin' to find him, and when I do, if you had anything to do with what happened to him, I'm goin' to come back here and ram these here books down your throat, one by one. Got it?"

"I don't know–"

"And I will help."

The finality in Estaban's voice made the doctor's protests die in his throat, and Lundy smiled at his prisoner, a smile all teeth and no joy, and smashed him back into the shelves before letting him drop. Footsteps echoed as the pair left the house, the door slamming behind them.

Once in Lundy's truck, though, Estaban turned a serious gaze on the other officer. "Lundy, you are my friend, as is Joe, so pardon the harshness of this truth. Even if LaFiamma is still among the living, he may never be again the partner that you knew."

Lundy looked down the street, his own eyes flint. Was Joe still alive? With what he and Mike LaFiamma had figured out, it looked likely, but it was hard to reclaim his partner from the ashes and truly believe it. He guessed he wouldn't believe it until he saw Joe again, alive and well. But… would he be Joe? "I know, Estaban. But he's my partner. I gotta try."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Maria, what do you know about Michael?" At the blank look she received, Loren added, "Michael Shapiro, the new janitor?"

"Ah, _si_ ," said the young woman, pausing after she had emptied Loren's trash basket and swept a practiced eye around the office. "Well, it is said that he was a child here, and that when he was old enough, he went out for janitorial training and was hired here." She shrugged, head cocked at Loren.

"Hmmm," said Loren thoughtfully. "He doesn't strike me as the janitorial type." She caught herself and flushed. "I'm sorry, Maria. It's just that he doesn't seem to fit in very well."

"That is what we say also," smiled Maria. "He is very out of place here. But he will find his way, in time. Besides," she shrugged, bending to pick up the recycling bin, "he is simple. It is both easier and harder for them."

"Simple?" Loren blinked at her nod, then leaned back in her chair as the woman left. "Simple?" she repeated softly. "That man is no more simple than I am."

She didn't notice the office door across the hall as it quietly closed.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"I'm tellin' you, sir, she's askin' questions 'bout LaFiamma."

"Don't _ever_ use that name!!"

The small, bespectacled man jerked the phone from his ear, trembling at the wrath in the voice. He had only met his employer once, and that was enough. He did not want to provoke him, no, not at all.

"Sorry, sir," he whispered as soon as he dared.

"So she's curious about Michael, then."

"Yes, sir. Says he doesn't fit the janitorial type." There was a long pause, then the man quavered, "What do you want me to do, sir?"

"Leave that to me. You've done well, Phillips, very well indeed. You may perhaps merit a bonus on this one. Listen closely to this woman. I want to know if she's pursuing this matter, understand?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." His only answer was a click as the connection vanished, and he sighed as he relaxed.

On the other end of the phone, a man tilted his chair back, eyes on the skyscape out his 40th story office window. What to do about these niggling annoyances… First the cop leaned on his doctor, then this woman, Loren Eisely, had to step in and exercise her curiosity. His lips curled. "Well, Ms. Eisely, curiosity killed the cat, you know. And it may yet kill you. You and Levon Lundy have much in common – I think I'll have to arrange a meeting… in the afterlife."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Mike nibbled the end of the pencil and stared at the list, ignoring the lunchtime chatter of the cafe around him. Four columns were penciled across the piece of paper in front of him – History, Evidence, Dreams, Evidence. Evidence had the subheaders of 'Pro' and 'Con.'

Under history he listed all the things he had been told and knew by memory – his childhood, janitorial training, work history, education. _No wife, no family, no friends_. Next to that column he hesitated, frowning. What supporting evidence did he have of any of it? Faded and spotty memories didn't count, and neither did any of the accounts of himself he'd heard, which were all secondhand hearsay. Evidence against? Everyone thought him simple. But he knew how to sign. Of course, simple people could probably learn that, but… it certainly wasn't typical. He was supposed to have janitorial training, but he had to be shown everything he supposedly already knew, and learned it like a new skill. But he didn't forget once he'd mastered the skills, so he shouldn't have forgotten them the first time. He chewed the pencil again, considering.

Well, there should be paperwork on all of it – maybe he could locate it. In fact, he should have a resume himself. Funny, though. He didn't remember making one.

He grimaced, moving onto the second set of columns. Dreams. If he went by dreams, he had (past tense?) a friend(?) the blond(?). But 'friend' didn't feel quite right for that relationship, and he crossed it out, then put a question mark next to it. Someone who cared about him.

 _…don't you ever think I don't care_.

Mike closed his eyes as the blond's voice echoed in his head. Somewhere in that conversation was a name, a name for him. He couldn't catch it, but he did know one thing.

It wasn't Michael.

The dreams also made it clear that he himself had lived with danger as a given. He shook his head, lips twitching. Was he just a janitor with delusions of grandeur? He left the question unanswered and continued the task. Danger. Guns. He had carried them in the dreams. Them? He pondered, then nodded. More than one. And he'd been good with them.

He'd also spent a lot of time outside in the dreams, in the blond's pickup or his own car.

Staring down at the list, he sighed. This didn't fit well on paper, but he felt alive for the first time in days. In fact… He closed his eyes, teeth gritted. In fact, he hadn't felt this alive, this… _normal_ , since he'd woken up the first morning here. But what was "normal"?

He sighed again and opened his eyes, staring at the list again. Evidence supporting the dreams? Well, there was nothing to support the existence of the blond. But his own reaction to the slamming door the other day made it obvious that he reacted quickly to violent cues. And he was tanned, more so than he should be as a janitor. And there were the scars. Evidence against?

And not a shred of paper to prove it. And what did all this make him anyway?

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Lundy escorted Mike LaFiamma into the room, biting back his feelings of ambivalence about this plan. But this might be the only surefire way to find Joe, so…

"Hah," said Uncle Mike as the man sitting at the interrogation table cringed at sight of the mobster. "So you know me."

The hitman who had claimed responsibility for killing Joe swallowed hard. "Yeah, I know you. But I was only takin' orders when I killed your nephew, you gotta know it ain't my fault, I didn't–"

"We will hear no more of your lies." The words were smooth, but the iron behind them forced a second glance from Lundy. "My nephew is alive, yes?"

The hitman shivered, then rallied. "What you talkin' about? He's dead. Easy kill, and I was paid well. He was–"

" _Enough_."

The one word stopped the hitman cold, and he ducked his head, not meeting the steely gaze that bored into him. Lundy could see the hands clasped in his lap, shaking, and studied the man who stood easily in front of him, looking down at the hitman. Lundy shook his head, remembering all the conversations where he'd accused Joe of purposely leaving his family out of police investigations, and Joe's frustrated reply that they were too smart to be caught. For the first time Lundy appreciated the truth behind the words and he looked at Mike LaFiamma with grudging respect. Joe could have no more powerful ally, and though Lundy didn't like it, he was glad that Uncle Mike was with him and not against him.

"Now, tell us." Uncle Mike settled beside the hitman, glancing up at Lundy in invitation. The policeman grimaced, but joined him, sitting several seats down from the two men.

"He'll kill me."

"And I'll kill you if you don't."

Lundy stirred at the cold words, but Mike LaFiamma's gaze was clear and ruthless.

"And I have ways," LaFiamma added simply. "Many, many ways."

"If'n you cooperate, he'll be in jail and no worry t' you," Lundy said, tipping his hat back. "And you'll have a deal with the DA for your testimony."

"And your life," Mike reminded.

The combined barrage finally broke the man, and Lundy looked away as tears spilled down the hitman's face. "All right, all right, all right!" He took a breath, wiped his face with his sleeve, and started talking.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"So Joe's been alive all this time?!" Beaumont's words were quiet, but the meaning sizzled.

"Seems likely," said Lundy, turning his hat in his hands. "Or was when Dean 'killed' him. He doesn't know who the boss is, but the guy who hired him is one step closer. He called the man an egghead, so he's probably educated an' can be traced that way. From what Frank's cellmate said, I'd guess that the big guy is his brother, even if we can't track him yet."

"Get on it," said Joanne, leaning forward over her desk, eyes narrowed. "If Joe's out there, I want him back, ASAP. And as for whoever did this – I want him, Lundy. I want him to pay."

Lundy placed the hat on his head and touched it to her. "Be my pleasure, Joanne."

Back at his desk, Lundy set his hat in its customary place, gaze lingering on his partner's chair, set neatly before the empty desk facing Lundy's own. Was Joe out there, alive, himself? _No_ , Levon answered his own question, _not himself. Joe would've called_. And from what he'd learned from Mike LaFiamma about the doctor's work, Joe would've been… made over, into someone else. Did he know something was wrong, Lundy wondered, staring at his partner's place, where echoes of Joe ran rampant? Or was he… someone else, with Joe LaFiamma gone, forever?

Levon took a breath, sweeping up the phone as it rang. "Howdy… What? Mother Minnie's place? What does he do? Yeah, I see… Uh, well, I don't really have time to come down there right now, but I appreciate your keeping an eye on the place… If somethin' happens, I'll know who to call… And besides, there ain't that much to steal, anymore… Ah-huh. Much obliged. Bye."

"Trouble, Levon?" Annie's soft voice chimed, and Lundy turned to see the wheelchair halted beside him.

"No," Lundy said, smiling at her. "Seems that a neighbor of Mother Minnie's been keepin' an eye on her place since she passed away, and he thinks someone's casin' the place. Figured I oughta know. But what with searchin' for Joe right now, I just don't have the time."

"You take all the time you need, Levon," she said, the lack of surprise in her tone verifying his expectation that the grapevine would've already carried the news of Joe's status. "But you find him."

Rising, Levon bent to place a kiss on her cheek. "I will, Annie," he promised as he plucked his hat from its place. "My word on it."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

It was late afternoon, and Loren stopped on her way to the parking lot to stand at the edge of the porch, enjoying the play of shadows across her face as a breeze shook the trees shading the veranda. Behind her she could hear Mike sweeping the porch, and she smiled to herself. He'd finally wangled an outside assignment – good thing, too, or he would've started climbing the walls. And she knew it was bad when even she could tell that.

A dark-colored car moved down the circular driveway, and Loren frowned at it. Not many people took this turn unless they were interested in children or had official business, and this car didn't resemble the first and shouldn't be the second, since it was after business hours. She watched it for a moment as it drew nearer, then shrugged and started toward the steps. Probably just someone who was lost. Maybe she could help.

The events of the next few moments seemed to happen in slow motion, even though she knew, later, that everything occurred in seconds. The car sped up as she reached the steps, and she glanced up, thinking that perhaps they saw her as someone they thought to question. Instead, she saw the tinted back window slide smoothly down, saw the gun muzzle emerge, felt the almost audible click as the weapon centered on her–

And gasped as someone hit her from behind, throwing her into the small grassy ditch that edged the porch, damp from that morning's watering. Grass plowed into her nose, rocks bruised her hip, and she heard the zing and zap of bullets overhead. She glanced up just in time to see Mike roll to his feet in one coordinated move, muscles rippling across his shoulders as he dodged toward the ditch edge, both hands reaching for a shoulder holster that wasn't there.

So obvious was the move that Loren stared at the man in wonder, forgetting her own danger in startled recognition of the so-familiar gesture. Mike clenched his fists as his hands met emptiness where guns should hang, confusion darkening his eyes, then shook his head as shots echoed over their heads. He crouched below the edge, peering over it with care, and such was the easy alertness that he wore like a second skin that Loren swallowed hard. His assurance and obvious experience with the situation was so clear that the words of caution died in Loren's throat.

 _This man was never a janitor in his life_.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Lundy stared at the torn envelope, his own picture showing through the ragged paper, then lifted his gaze to Estaban. "What–?"

"It appears, amigo, that you have made an enemy who would like to see you as dead as Joe no longer is."

Lundy lifted the envelope, pulled his picture and studied it. "How'd you get this?"

The Mexican officer shrugged. "The luck of the gods rides on your shoulder, Lundy. The man carrying this was in a car accident. Officers at the scene moved in to remove him from the car and found this." He gestured to the picture. "As well as a Glock with a silencer and no license. So they arrested him. So shocked was he by his bad luck that he confessed before reaching the station." He shook his head, eyes sober. "The hit was for you, Lundy. Perhaps you are closer to Joe than you believe."

Lundy sighed, sliding the picture back into the envelope and handing it back to Estaban. "Well, that's comfortin'. Sure wish I could use it, though. He know anything else?"

Estaban shook his head. "He was hired over the phone, half the money delivered by courier before the hit. He knows no one and nothing."

"Too bad." The phone rang, and Lundy scooped it up, thanking Estaban with a nod as the officer moved to his own desk.

Lundy listened, his features tightening. "I told you I would take care of that!"

"Do you wish the information or not?" Mike LaFiamma asked icily.

Briefly Lundy wondered where all the good cheer they'd shared had gone. _Probably right back into the bottle where it came from_ , he thought. "Damn it, I said–"

"I will assume, then, that you already know who the man works for and leave it in your capable hands. Am I correct?"

Lundy inhaled and held it. _Swallow your pride, boy_. "No, you're not, an' you know it. Spit it out. Who the hell hired the hitman who confessed to killin' Joe?"

"Richard Tracy. College man, enough to make him attractive to his boss."

"Who is?" Lundy said tightly.

"Dean Drake. He was foster brother to Frank."

"So that's it."

"Yes." There was silence, then Mike added, his words very quiet. "This is the end of what we have together, Detective Lundy. These phone calls… no more. You are my nephew's partner – find him." The phone went dead.

"Damn," muttered Lundy as he set the phone back into its cradle. Still, it was more than he'd expected, and he couldn't deny a feeling of relief at the end of their relationship. His lips tugged upward slightly. It stuck in Lundy's craw that he couldn't arrest the man, but all in all, Mike LaFiamma wasn't that bad to work with, even if he was as dirty as the day was long. Not that he'd ever tell Joe that.

The thought brought his focus back to the driving need to find his partner, and he frowned thoughtfully as he lifted the phone again.

Minutes later, he sat back and studied his notes. Dean Drake was a wealthy man, with a lot of connections. He owned a lot of companies, including an oil company, and sat on the board of directors for a railroad, a lumber company, and many others. He lived in Lombard, where he also owned a hospital, a hardware store, sat on the board of a children's home and was part-owner of a local newspaper. Lundy shook his head. _Quite the good citizen. Bet people in Lombard think he walks on water._

Roughly shoving his chair back, he headed in to JoAnne. The man was in Lombard, so to Lombard he would go.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Mike, shh. What's wrong? I thought we agreed–"

"No." Mike stepped back as Kate turned toward them, the gun swinging in her shoulder holster visible in the fluorescent light of the police station. "No, no, no…" He backed toward the door he and Loren had just entered, his voice louder with every denial, his eyes fixed and wide, focused on the gun.

Loren caught his arm just before he bolted, and the moment he spent struggling with her was just enough for Kate and two other officers to reach them. Panicked, Mike fought furiously, and such was his expertise that one of the officers went down with a bruised jaw before the three could subdue him, dragging him over by main force to fingerprint him.

Loren hovered off to one side, feeling helpless and bewildered and somewhat ashamed, though the last emotion made her shake her head at herself. She and Mike had talked about his reaction to the gunmen, and he had confided to her that he felt out of place and confused. It had been her suggestion that he have his fingerprints taken, hoping that might yield some clues to his past, and Mike had agreed, seemingly willingly. Why, then, this massive overreaction to a simple procedure they had both agreed upon?

She winced as Mike moaned, the sheer terror in the sound catching her heart. His eyes were riveted to Kate's gun, and Loren could see the sweat glistening on the back of his neck.

 _It's funny_ , Loren thought, trying to view the scene with a professional objectivity and give herself some much needed distance, _but I'd almost say he's conditioned. That focus… like a victim of abuse responding to some move or something that triggers a violent response_ …

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Lundy hefted his bag over Mother Minnie's doorstep, swallowing the ache in his chest as he inhaled. Dang it, even after almost a year, the house still smelled like her. He cleared his throat and dug into his unpacking, setting out his bathroom stuff with studied care. Not that there was that much.

That done, he wandered through the house, smiling softly at the memories. The house was strong with them, and not just those of Mother Minnie. Joe was here, too, in the darkness where he'd told Lundy of his AIDs test, in the breakfast he'd taken up to Mother Minnie, in the talks they'd had on the front porch. Even if some of the memories he had of Joe had not occurred, strictly speaking, in the house itself, it was here that they were stored, and it was here that he recalled them. This was home, after all.

He stopped in the family room, remembering the night he and LaFiamma spent there after Mother Minnie told him of her impending death. They'd talked for hours, the three of them, and before he left the next day, Mother Minnie drew him aside to ask him to look after Joe.

"You're all he's got left now, Little Levon," she said, patting his cheek. "You watch over him, you hear?"

"Hell of a job I did, huh, Mother Minnie?" he whispered, the silence of the empty room mocking him.

He sighed, then turned, grabbing his hat as he exited the house, completely missing the man who trudged toward the house from a side street, shoulders slumped and a cap pulled low.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Mike raised his head as he fronted the house, studying it with an intense stare. This afternoon had been hard, and now as he looked at a house he knew he'd once had a right to enter freely, he hunched his shoulders against the cool breeze, scuffing his toe in the dust of the sidewalk. Swallowing hard, he let the feelings sweep through him, trying not to let his desperation to understand stifle them.

Warmth… familiarity… belonging… affection… safety… trust… security… and something else. He frowned, tracing it down the pathways of his soul, until finally he decided that it was camaraderie. _Camaraderie_ , he thought, the word slow as he absorbed its meaning. He'd been here with someone else, someone he trusted with his life and, to some extent, his soul. Wasn't that the definition of the word?

He turned away from the loneliness that blew cold across the other side of the thought, wandering a few steps along the street, head bowed. Why had he fought so hard at the police station this afternoon? he wondered, finally facing the experience that had driven him here. What he had known at that moment, force-held by police officers, facing the fingerprinting, was… familiarity. And terror. And familiarity. And revulsion. And familiarity. And anger. And… he shook his head, cutting short the litany. It had been a barrage of feelings, frightening in their intensity and irrationality. The bedrock of his soul had cracked in those moments, and he was no longer sure who and what he was. He had come to this house because it was the only place he knew where he felt real. Or at least, where he had once and might be so again.

 _Was it the blond I trusted, once, somewhere?_ he wondered, his gaze wandering across the porch and yard. _Then where is he now?_

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"You imbecile!" Drake shouted, clenching the phone with white-knuckled fingers. "A car accident, for God's sake! What kind of incompetent moron did you hire, Mark? What do you mean, the police have him now? Well, he doesn't know who hired him, right? Good. Then that shouldn't pose a problem."

Silence for a long moment, and when Drake spoke again his voice was curt and quiet. "If HPD is asking questions about me, then Joseph LaFiamma has just become a major hindrance. Kill him." He placed the phone in its cradle with deliberate precision, and steepling his fingers, stared out his picture window, trying to ignore the chill on his neck just as he ignored the forty stories of space below his gaze.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"Lundy, Joanne here. Are you sitting down?"

"Now, Joanne, what kinda question is that?" Lundy shifted the phone from ear to the other as he hung his hat on the nail behind the front door, frowning as he listened to her voice.

"Sit down."

Lundy raised an eyebrow, then followed the order without protest, fighting back the shiver that crawled down his back. "All right, I'm sittin'. Hit me."

He heard her inhale. "Joe's in Lombard."

Lundy's stomach started churning, and he had to take a deep breath before he could say anything. "How do you know that, Joanne?"

She swallowed audibly. "He was fingerprinted yesterday, and they sent the prints on to me when he came up in the database."

Lundy stared unseeingly at the half-open front door. "An' what else?"

"He's a janitor, Levon. His name is Michael Shapiro, and he works at the Children's Home that Drake owns."

Lundy spat a curse, a wave of helpless fury twisting through him, but Joanne rode over the words. "Go talk to Loren Eisely. She's the counselor at the Home, and Joe's friend."

Lundy scrawled the address with hands that were shaking, then hung up, not hearing or responding to Joanne's farewell.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

 _Nice home_ , Lundy thought numbly as he parked in front of it. Decent-sized, several bedrooms, nice front lawn with a huge tree in front and a brick-walled yard in back… _What 'm I doin'?_ he thought as he sat and stared at it, not quite daring to open his door and walk up the neat path to the tree-shaded porch. _I'm scared_ , he admitted as he shivered in the warm evening air. _Scared t' death. What if Joe's past helpin', if he's this Michael Shapiro for good? What'll I do then?_ He shook his head, looking away from the question. _And what'll I do if he's still Joe under all that?_

"Hi. You must be Detective Lundy."

Lundy jerked his head up, cursing himself for letting someone get so close without even sensing them. That could get them killed–. He stopped the thought short as the plural penetrated.

The woman standing next to the car was mature, somewhere in her thirties, he imagined. Five foot seven, dark-haired, hazel-eyed, with a small quirk to her lips that hinted at a well-exercised sense of humor. Right now the haunted look in her eyes and the tentative smile she wore showed the strain was getting to her, too.

"Yes, ma'am," the Texan said, taking a deep breath and pushing the truck door open. He took his hat off as he exited, holding it somewhat restlessly. "You must be Ms. Eisely. Joanne said you were the counselor at the Home that Joe's– that Michael–" He shook his head, frustrated. "I don't mind tellin' you, ma'am, that this whole thing has me tied up in knots."

"Yes," said the woman, her smile a little strained, but real. "You look like the other side of the life that Mike's been living. He hasn't been too happy, either." She shook her head. "This will take some getting used to for me, too, Detective."

"Lundy. Levon Lundy," he interrupted, and she nodded.

"Call me Loren," she said, turning toward the house. "Why don't we talk inside? I'm sure you have questions, and so do I."

Ten minutes later, cold glasses of lemonade beside them, Loren took a breath and studied Lundy. He still looked stunned, but she guessed that he was beginning to recover. "I hope you don't mind," she said quietly, "but I would like to ask some questions before I tell you the story from my side. I think, that way, what I tell you will make more sense."

Lundy nodded. Now that he was finally on the verge of learning about Joe, he found himself willing to wait. He wondered if he was being cowardly, but decided that that wasn't it, not really. Yes, he was scared, bone-deep scared, but if he was to reclaim his partner and bring him home, he needed to understand where he was now and had been, and this lady was a large part of that. And after what she'd done for Joe, she deserved anything that he could give her. "Ask away, ma'am."

"Could you tell me what happened to your friend from the beginning? Joe– what did you say his name was?"

Lundy cleared his throat. "Joseph Anthony LaFiamma," he said, careful to pronounce the name correctly. "He's a detective in the Houston police department, a sergeant." He looked down, twirling the hat in his hands. "Thirteen days ago, his car blew up with him in it." He stopped for a moment, fighting back the tightness in his throat. _It wasn't him_ , he reminded himself.

Loren reached over and turned one of his hands palm up, revealing the burn scars, still not quite healed. She studied them for a moment, then nodded. "You were there."

He nodded, not looking up. "Yes, ma'am. I tried to pull him from the car, but…" He shrugged. "Everythin' in the car that was still identifiable matched Joe's effects, and nothin' was left of the body. A few days later, a hitman claimed responsibility for it, but Joe's uncle and I started asking questions and gettin' answers that didn't fit.

"Seems a man we put in prison a while back had a foster brother who didn't take so kindly to Joe's part in the arrest. We think he hired a doctor whose job was to 'make people disappear,' and blew the car up with a body in it, setting us up to think Joe was dead. We traced the foster brother to Lombard, where he has quite a stake. I came down here to investigate, so I was here when Joanne called me about Joe's bein' here." He drew a deep breath. "So…" He looked up. "…here I am."

She nodded. "Joe's name, as far as he knows, is Michael Shapiro. He says he's an orphan, that he has no wife, no family, no friends." She saw the stricken look in the Texan's eyes before he could look away, and added, "But he doesn't believe it."

He glanced up at her, and she clarified, "Not deep in his soul. He's been here nine days now, and he's confused, miserable, and out of place. He's about as inept a janitor as you can get, and he's still got all the instincts of a police officer." She told him of Mike's reaction to the door slamming, and he nodded. "I started asking questions about him, and I guess that that got around to someone."

"Dean Drake," said Lundy softly.

She frowned at him. "Was that the foster brother?" She grimaced. "It still sounds fantastic to me, but it's the only reason I can think of for someone to put a hit on me. Mike…" She paused, shaking her head. "…Joe saw it and threw me out of the way. The way he reacted as he cased the scene was _not_ something a janitor knows or does, and he was reaching for a gun and was confused when it wasn't there. So we talked it over afterward, and decided to take him in for fingerprinting, hoping it might turn up some clues. But when we got there…" She described the fight it had taken to fingerprint Mike, and concluded with, "So that's the story from this side." She studied Lundy for a long moment, then said quietly, "Are you ready to meet him?"

Lundy looked at her, then shook his head. "No," he said, rising, "but it's time. Ma'am," he said as she stood, "I don't know how to thank you for all you've done–"

"I'm going with you," she said, cutting off his farewell, adding as he started to protest, "Lundy, he knows me. Right now he doesn't know you. I think he'll recognize you, but I also think he's going to be confused, probably scared, and I can help with that."

Lundy opened his mouth again, then closed it. "Ma'am," he said, motioning her to precede him to the door.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

 _Funny_ , Lundy thought wryly as he turned onto Joe's street, _how much a man can change. Was a time, not so long ago, that I said he walks funny, he talks funny, and I could do my job without him. Now, here I am, tryin' my best to drag him back into my life, and hopin' I still got the chance_.

He parked at the curb, eying the small apartment with surprise and then a slow smolder of anger. Noticing his tight expression, Loren looked up at him, frowning. "What is it?"

Lundy shook his head. "Joe's apartment back in Houston is three times this size, and a whole hell of a lot nicer. To put him here…" He turned the key off, setting the brake with more force than necessary.

Loren was silent, then said softly, "So that every time he came home he would feel wrong, out of place, in a world where he was out of place anyway… The man who did this must truly hate him."

Lundy reached for his hat, then frowned at the car parked in front of him. It was not ostensibly in front of Joe's place, but it was too nice for the neighborhood, and maybe…

"Didn't you say that he hadn't made any friends here yet?" he asked, catching Loren in the act of unbuckling her seat belt.

"Yes," she said, following his gaze to the car ahead and cocking her head. "And janitors don't make that kind of friend."

"Stay here," Lundy said shortly, sliding out of the truck and grabbing his gun in the same move. "And get down."

"No problem," she said, ducking below her window.

Lundy moved smoothly to the door, finding it ajar. Seized by a dark hunch, he edged his way in, holding his gun ready. Voices murmured in the back, and he crept down the hallway, listening.

"Yep, I got you now, haven't I? And I don't even have to force you." The voice was smug, and Lundy gritted his teeth, inching into a pool of shadow beside the door to the room from which the voices echoed.

"All I gotta do is to hold a gun on you, and you're helpless. You'll do exactly what I say, won't you?"

Lundy leaned forward ever so slightly, his heart bumping into his throat as the scene came into view. Joe stood in partial profile to him, his expression visible as he faced the man who stood with his back to Lundy, holding a gun on the Italian.

Lundy took in the scene with one swift glance, then looked back to his partner, caught in the moment of his reality, his nightmares fading to ashes and blowing away in the wind of the present. But then, slowly, he focused in on the current moment, seeing not just his partner, but also…Michael.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Mike was terrified. Sweat iced his spine, he couldn't breathe, and his vision kept blurring. The worst of it was that he couldn't figure out why. He had handled guns, had owned one (or two?), so why was the sight of this man's gun so paralyzing? He was just one man, after all, and Mike knew that he could take him out, given the opportunity, particularly given the loose way he held the gun. But even the dry analysis running through his brain could not counteract the haze of sheer dread that held him in its grip.

The man's taunts were just words to his ears, and his legs were just about ready to fold under him when the room exploded into action. All he was aware of was the voice that suddenly barked, "Police! Freeze!" and the deadly authority that filled the corners of his small room, making him feel flattened and confused. The gleam of sunlight on the stranger's gun as he advanced held his focus, forcing the authority in the room into a smothering wave, and he backed off before it, whirling to dash from the room before it could choke him.

Behind him he heard shouts, but ignored them, running toward the blinding white line of the sidewalk, the exit to the rest of the world. He didn't hear the racing footsteps behind him until hands grasped his shoulders, bringing him face down into the grass.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Lundy knelt over Joe's still form and tried to catch his breath. Good God, but in all the scenarios he'd dreamed up about this moment, he'd never expected to have to bring down his partner this way! Hell, he'd never expected Joe to run from him, either.

Before he could give himself time to think about that, he grabbed Joe's shoulder, heaving him over. His partner's eyes immediately focused on the gun, now holstered but clearly visible through Lundy's open jacket, and he whimpered, his eyes widening until Lundy was honestly afraid he might pass out.

Neither of them was aware of Loren until she bent, ripping the gun out of its holster and tucking it swiftly out of sight. The stimulus gone, Joe's eyes fell shut and he relaxed, panting.

"Mike!" Loren's tone demanded a response, and the Italian stirred, then reluctantly opened his eyes, which quickly widened as they focused on Lundy's face.

"You!"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"I think he's been conditioned," Loren said as she and Lundy sat down again on her couch, the Texan unable to halt his sideways glance at the attractive police lieutenant who entered the house as if she owned it. Hell, he thought, maybe she did.

"Conditioned?" he queried, his focus veering back to Loren.

She nodded, frowning even as she cast a clearly welcoming glance at the other woman, who hiked an eyebrow at Lundy, then smiled and vanished into the back of the house.

"I think," Loren clarified. "He certainly acts like it. My guess is that someone set him up to fear the very thing he was, ensuring that he wouldn't– _couldn't_ seek it out, even if he wanted to."

Lundy mulled over that, then nodded. "So he's scared of the police. And guns, I guess."

Loren hiked an eyebrow at his tone, and he continued, explaining what he'd overheard inside the house.

Loren nodded. "Yes, that fits a classic description of conditioning. If there's a police officer anywhere around him, or a gun, he'll run from one and fixate on the other to the point of excluding anything else."

"I guess that explains why he ran from me," Lundy said softly, turning his hat in his hands and staring at it sightlessly.

"Yes," she said softly, watching him. "He couldn't help himself, Lundy," she said, interpreting his stunned expression correctly. "He literally didn't see you, didn't hear anything but your words, didn't see anything but the gun. So he ran."

Lundy drew a breath, then placed his hat on the couch beside himself. "Well, guess I'd better call Joanne, let her know what went down. We'll have to decide what to do about Joe…" His words trailed off and he shook his head.

"I have someone who might be able to help," Loren said thoughtfully, reaching for an address book. "He told me he knew someone once…" She flipped through the book, then set it down and punched out a call, beating Lundy to the phone by a heartbeat.

A few minutes later she hung up, the smile on her face raising Lundy's hopes. "Okay," she said briskly. "Brad said that he could get hold of someone who might be able to help."

"I don't understand," Lundy said uneasily. "You're a counselor, can't you do somethin' for him?"

Loren shook her head, sober again. "Lundy, this is so far outside my league that I can't even get close. Brad has connections to someone who once worked in the CIA–" She held up a hand as Lundy's eyes widened in alarm. "This man said something once about changing someone's identity. It was subtle, and I don't know anymore about him then that Brad knows him, but Brad thinks he could help us."

"Why should they?" Lundy demanded. "The Feds are one thing, but the CIA, for cryin' out loud! What's it to them if LaFiamma stays this Michael?"

Loren shook her head at him. "I don't know, Lundy, but Brad seemed to think that they'd be on our side, and I trust him. He said something about them not liking a loose cannon out there."

Lundy considered this, his heavy frown slowly lightening. "Yeah, they might not, at that. Whoever did this did a class one job, and if he might've worked for them before, they might not like him freelancin'. It's worth a try." He shook his head. "I just hope they don't decide to ice us all and bury us so deep the bodies'll never turn up. Guess I'd better make that call to Joanne."

Loren nodded, watching him with troubled eyes as he punched out the number. Had she set them up for terrible trouble? Or was Brad really trustworthy, and could he protect them from possible repercussions? She inhaled deeply, then swallowed.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Lundy stood a long moment in the doorway, watching the dark-haired man as he leaned against the glassed door leading outside from his room. Such was the isolation surrounding the figure that the Texan almost turned and left, but he shook his head at himself and planted his boots on the carpeted floor, remembering Loren's words.

_Talk to him, Lundy. His world has just turned upside down again, and you're the only familiar thing he can recognize, even a little. Talk to him._

Clearing his throat, Lundy swallowed. "Howdy."

Mike turned to look at him, and Lundy swallowed again. It was Joe... and yet it wasn't. He figured it must be just as disturbing for Joe… Mike to look at him, so he spoke first.

"Guess you don't remember me," he said, trying to keep the words easy. "That's okay. We'll work this thing out together, just like always–"

"I do remember."

Lundy stopped mid-sentence, realizing that he was on the verge of babbling. "What– What do you remember?"

Mike frowned, then walked slowly over to him. "You. I remember you. Pictures…" He shook his head, his eyes losing their focus.

"What pictures?" Lundy had to restrain himself from reaching out to shake the man. Was it possible that they'd not only changed the personality, but cut off the intelligence, too? That would spell the death of Joe's career just as quick as the other.

Mike looked up at him, his gaze abruptly sharp and clear. "Memories… you and me in the house, talking, dragging you away from a burning car, you shooting someone who was going to shoot me, and…" he hesitated, glancing away.

Lundy drew a breath, stunned by the list. A lot… that was a lot. Watching Joe, he realized that it wasn't lack of intelligence that made him hesitate and stutter, but rather a lack of… boundaries, he decided. The man had two sets of realities colliding in his brain; was it any wonder he couldn't figure which should have priority, which was right and which wasn't?

"And what?" he prompted softly.

Mike looked back at him. "I remember… a burning car, watching you try to get to it. I was sitting in a car with someone, a man. I wanted to get out, but… I couldn't move. He wouldn't let me. And then…" He shook his head. "I woke up in my bed at– at home…"

He glanced away again, and Lundy fought to take a breath past the fury that gripped him. _Goddamn the son-of-a-bitch… to make him watch_!

"But it wasn't home, was it." The words weren't really a question, and Lundy jerked his attention back to Joe, who was looking up at him soberly. "Was it?"

Suddenly wordless, Lundy shook his head.

"And I'm not a janitor. And this isn't my life." He hesitated. "Is it?"

Lundy took a breath. "No. No, it isn't. Not even close."

Mike looked at him evenly. "Then who am I? And who're you?"

Lundy took another breath. He could see a muscle jumping in Joe's jaw, and swallowed his own tension. "Your name is Joseph Anthony LaFiamma," he said starkly, "and you're a detective in the Houston Police Department."

Mike swallowed, hard, the fragment of memory now complete. _LaFiamma, don't you ever think I don't care_. His eyes were still steady on Lundy. "And you're…?"

Lundy met his eyes. "We're partners. My name is Levon–"

"Lundy."

Lundy nodded, then, trying to break the tension, motioned to the bed. "You mind?"

Mike shook his head, joining him as he sat down on the mattress.

"Then what happened to me– to us?"

Lundy tersely explained the circumstances, trying not to make it sound too frightening. "But don't worry," he finished. "We called in someone; he'll fix you up and everythin' can go back to normal."

There was silence from Mike for a long moment. "Do we lie to each other, Lundy?"

Lundy glanced away. "Not usually."

The silence forced him to look back, and Mike's gaze caught and held his. "Then don't start now. Please. You don't really know if this can be fixed, do you?"

Lundy sighed. "No, I don't. This guy Loren's callin'… he's supposed to do work like this, but I just don't know."

Mike nodded. "Thanks. For not lying," he said at Lundy's surprised glance.

Lundy nodded. "No problem, partner."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

"I'll return him when I'm done."

Lundy didn't release Joe's arm, planting himself like a tree at his partner's side, ready to resist the quiet, efficient stranger for all he was worth.

It was two days later, and the grey-suited man had turned up on Loren's doorstep without warning, calmly walked past Lundy and Loren into the house, and started urging Joe out of it. Joe, confused and somewhat scared, followed directions numbly, but his look at Lundy showed his uncertainty and his readiness to rebel at a sign.

"You ain't takin' him nowhere," Lundy said through his teeth, noting absently that Kate stood behind him, ready and willing to back him up.

The stranger sighed, stopping on the porch, a hand on Joe's other arm. "Mr. Lundy, I will be blunt. There are those who would like me to do nothing whatsoever about this situation except remove the instigator of it. However, since I trained him, I feel some responsibility for fixing his blunder. Thus, I am taking Mr. LaFiamma to a place where I can do so, and if you insist on arguing with me, I will simply leave him in your tender care. But I assure you that your chances of regaining your partner of old are next to nil through standard means. Now, which is it?"

Lundy glared at him in silence, unable to answer. Joe lifted a hand, tugging at his sleeve, and Lundy looked at him, seeing the frustrated tension in his eyes, a tension that had echoes of Joseph LaFiamma but with a haunted, hunted look that was obviously Michael Shapiro's.

"Lundy," he said with difficulty, the unfamiliar word slow, "let me go."

Lundy stared at him. "You don't mean t' tell me you trust this–"

"It doesn't matter whether I do or not," Mike interrupted. "Or whether you do. Please, Lundy. I want– I want to find who I am. To be myself in the morning. If he's the only one who can do that, then…" He shrugged. "…I don't care who he is."

Lundy closed his eyes against the words, telling himself it was just the hot desert breeze wafting across the porch that made his eyes sting. "All right," he said gruffly, then wheeled on the stranger. "But so help me, if you don't bring him back, I'll hunt you down to the ends of the earth. And I'll find you. My word on it."

The stranger looked at him, then nodded. "Yes, Mr. Lundy. I believe you would."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Seventy-two hours later Joseph Anthony LaFiamma walked up the steps to Mother Minnie's porch, pausing a moment to stare out over the neighborhood, his gaze lingering on the corner where Mike had stood so many times. A slow smile quirked his lips as he glanced around the small yard, letting the familiarity wash over him, and the memories. Straightening his shoulders, he stepped to the door and knocked.

Lundy had returned to the house he'd always called home, relieved to be back in his own space after two days spent at Loren and Kates' place. He spent a restless night and even worse day, unable to concentrate on much of anything. He tackled the clean-up and repair chores around the place that morning, trying to bury his tension in work and not succeeding very well. Talking to the neighbor who had reported the interested prowler, he pushed for a clearer description, sighing as the irony hit him. The recognition did nothing for his peace of mind the rest of the day.

Once the afternoon heat set in, Lundy had moved inside, where he promptly found he had nothing much to do except worry, which he did with a vengeance. Thus, when he opened the door to front LaFiamma, he stared, frozen. It wasn't just the unannounced appearance that shocked him – he had half-expected that. No, it was the clear recognition flooding him that stilled him where he stood. Michael Shapiro was gone, and Joseph LaFiamma stood in his place. The eyes that met his held no confusion, fear, bewilderment, or frustrated incomprehension. His partner stood there, a wide smile on his face.

"Never thought I'd catch you struck dumb, Lundy," he chided. "You gonna let me in or not?"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Joe stretched comfortably in the top bunk bed, hearing Lundy shifting below him and remembering the last time he'd slept in that room. Then he and Lundy had debated over the top bed, with Lundy winning – this time, he'd had the feeling that if he'd asked, Lundy would've slept on the couch. He grinned. He'd have to work on that. Lundy'd get over it soon enough; best to take advantage of it while it lasted.

It was night of the second day since he'd been returned, and he'd spent the time saying goodbye to the people and places he'd known here as Michael. He'd visited the Home that morning, walking the halls slowly, eying the sunlight falling through the large picture windows onto the mopped and polished floor, nodding to the janitorial staff, who didn't even seem to recognize him for the most part, though Jesus did stare at him for a long moment, then shook his head and moved away.

Funny. Lundy had brought Joe's clothes with him, as well as his guns, but LaFiamma wouldn't've expected them to really make that much difference in how people saw him. Michael Shapiro had been him, parts of his personality reshaped and shifted to make a new whole; did Joseph LaFiamma truly have so little in common with him that the people with whom he'd worked eight-hour days found him a stranger? From the blank glances he received and the outsider status, he guessed so, and even though he wanted no part of that life or those choices ever again, it was somewhat disturbing to be ignored as if he'd never existed here.

He and Lundy had had dinner with Loren and Kate at the BBQ ribs place, which Lundy pronounced "downright tolerable, if not up to Chickens'." And after a comfortable conversational supper, which Lundy paid for, figuring that that was the least he could do to pay the women back for what they'd done for his partner, the four of them played several games of pool, the Houston officers surprised that they had to play their best against the two woman team. The scores came out even, 2:2, and Lundy swore that they'd been suckered.

"That's what you get, buying into stereotypes," Loren teased. Remembering that comment, Joe opened his eyes to the darkness.

"Hey, Lundy."

A long pause, then a muffled, "Urmhm."

"Lundy, you awake?"

There was a shuffling sound, and the bed vibrated slightly. "I am now, LaFiamma. You got anything important to say that just can't wait 'till mornin'?"

"Loren and Kate – you suppose they're, you know, a couple?"

There was a silence, then Lundy's voice drifted up, dry and decisive. "Right now, boy, I couldn't care if they were a pair of matin' iguanas. As far as I'm concerned, they're two great ladies, an' that's where I stand on the subject."

Joe smiled up at the ceiling. "Yeah, they are that. Too bad they're not available."

"LaFiamma, if'n it's not too much to ask, can I go to sleep now?"

"Sure, Lundy, anything you say."

"Good."

"Lundy."

"What now, LaFiamma?"

"Oh, nothing."

A sound that vaguely resembled the surf on a stormy day echoed upward. "Just spit it out, boy."

"Thanks, partner… for everything."

"You're welcome, partner… for everything. Now, can we go to sleep?"

"Sure, Lundy, anything you say."

"Good. 'Night, LaFiamma."

"'Night, Lundy." Silence drifted over the night.

"Hey, Lundy…?"

 


End file.
